BBCSH 'Trauma: Blunt Force Object, Variation 1'
by tigersilver
Summary: PWP, fluff, hallway snogging, first times. Um, make that 'fast times'.


**BBCSH 'Trauma: Blunt Force Object; Variation #1' [NC-17] **

BCCSH 'Trauma, Blunt Force Object; Variation #1'

Author: **tigersilver**

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: S/J

WC: 3,400

Warnings: PWP, fluff, hallway snogging, first times.

The thing is…the assault, it goes like this:

Sherlock's got him pressed up against the wall just inside the flat door before John's even begun to struggle with removing his chilled arms from his coat sleeves. He's weary but well satisfied and has just issued an enormous sigh of relief at being safe back in their flat; nice familiar spaces, is it, and good on that. He's no idea whether Sherlock's heard him sighing and deduced something brilliant but there's nothing much to tell: it was as inevitable as rain and John's come to peace with it already.

Having his barking mad flat mate plant two large hands on either side of his head (lashes blinking fast; he's no idea what's set him off this time but Sherlock's face is twisting all over the map and his eyes are _insane_) is startling, to say the least—but John doesn't have the chance to say much of anything. It's all low cultured voice and quirked eyebrows daring, and Sherlock's practically vibrating with excitement, not even a half inch off John and closing fast.

"I've been waiting; this is brilliant," he says in a rather staccato burst that reminds John of gunfire, "can't ask for better, as I'd never stand between you and a previous obligation, John, but you have to know—no, you must realize that this ends _now_."

With that, he dives his nose into the space 'neath John's left earlobe (he's shaved before going out, taken a shower and if he smells of anything now it's probably like the pub where he and Sarah had their 'goodbye, it's been nice while it lasted' pints. And maybe Sarah's perfume, which was light and floral and pretty, like her. John would expect Sherlock to maybe be sniffing him; it's the licking a wide wet hot stripe up his throat that takes him by surprise.

Sherlock may as well be holding a knife to his throat, he's that shocked.

"History. It's over,_ finally;_ So boring, John, you've no idea—kiss me back, damn your eyes!"

Sherlock's mobile face morphs into five more ever odder different expressions in the space of one second flat and John's gawping freely at him and maybe reeling a bit on the inside, in his gut—and this_ is_ trauma, yes? Blunt force, and why the bleeding hell is _he_ being attacked anyway?

"Lips—good, that's it! Move!"

_Did I do something to ask for this?_ John digs round his ringing-panging-freaked out forebrain for an answer and comes up empty pawed. _What'd I _do_?_

"Now, here's the thing, John." Sherlock's got all the charm of an Uzi; he's firing words at John faster than John can literally hear them. "It's like this. Human emotion's not something I indulge in—I believe I indicated that much early on; sufficient warning for you; or at least that the females of the species, those in particular were not my area?" John nods, _yes, yes_, because it's a direct question and even stunned like a netted cod, he can answer those. Sherlock snorts and whuffles against his cheek. "But that's not to say I don't understand them, that I don't feel them—the whole gamut of human emotive responses, John, because I'm neither a child nor an idiot and one doesn't sort reasonable motives for crimes unless one comprehends the entire wealth of the forces involved."

Speaking of, Sherlock's a _force majeure_ and John's struggling to make any sense _at all_ of why _he's_ the one suffering blunt trauma and there are those eyebrows again, _expecting _at him.

"Oh…kay." It's the first full word John's actually spoken aloud since he returned; Sherlock was on him before he'd even managed to call out 'I'm home!"

"Brilliant. Now—"

Sherlock snaps his teeth loudly in John's ear, the same one into which he's hissing furiously—or maybe it's purring; John doesn't know, but certainly there's a great deal of emotion right here, right now. And bites him, which smarts. Bloody hell.

"Listen."

"Ulp!" John gurgles. A blunt-tipped object briefly rests against his belly-button, hot as molten lead right through the wool, right past the gaping zipper, and certainly he wasn't expecting that!

"Shut up, don't interrupt; I'm speaking!"

Sherlock draws back once more, looking both pleased by the mark high-intensity suction has left on John's Adam's apple and vastly irritated by the cod-faced glaze thoroughly ensconced on the planes of John's tired face. "That is to say, yes, I _am_ a freak in that I prefer not to experience strong emotion, John, but that doesn't mean I don't. It's exhausting, foolish and wearing to the extreme. Which logically leads to me being very choosy as to whom exactly I spend my store of it on and that would certainly devolve down to you, also logically—don't you agree? Of course you agree. That said, you're now single again—at last. Took you long enough, didn't it?—and I am quite definitely interested in transforming that state of your insularity into something much better and more physically satisfying for both of us for the long run—but. There's a caveat, John, and this is _me_, asking, _right now_."

"Er—what?" Second word; good on him.

"No, that's not right." Sherlock's voice trills right up the register, and then descends abruptly to a low snarly grumble, of the very impatient sort. "Telling, John; _deducing_. And you mustn't laugh or say no right off the bat—I won't allow it, as I've waited and _been _waiting"—he huffs with quicksilver irritation, glaring dark and beady-eyed down at John—"and been really very kind and considerate—(and now he's proud of himself, the twat)—"but that's done. Done!"

The last comes out in the same exact tone as Sherlock used when he shouted 'Pink!'

John gasps. Gargles, really. He might quite like Sherlock, even admire him intellectually—man's a sharp dresser and he's certainly good-looking, not to mention the whole deduction gig—but…he's not gone there since the awkward conversation at Angelo's that first night and he's not been inclined to, either. Anyone with half an eye—no, a blind-deaf-dumb-mute person can tell Sherlock's difficult as sodding fuck in a handbasket and _who needs that_?

"Because I won't be demeaned or shrugged off, John, and though I know you'd never do that, not to most and certainly not to _me_—I'm special—you might still be under the impression I'm not deathly serious over this and that's simply just _wrong_."

With no further adieu much less tacit permission, Sherlock kisses him: tongue thrusting deep and sure, past gums and right over soft palette and ganging up on John's own fumbling set of muscles, thrumming his glottis even, and it's like being deep-throated in reverse or perhaps perversely. Certainly John comes away from the experience thinking that okay, perhaps he might.

"Wrong!" Sherlock states victoriously and dives straight back in. For emphasis he cups John's swelling bollocks with both hands and ever so briefly, squeezing John likes he's particularly lovely melon, and John jerks where he's sagging when the hands rip away.

_Need that. _

But Sherlock's not finished with him yet, that's clear. He slams his one hand back against the plaster with enough force to crack it, drops his forearm down for better leverage and leans bloody well into John's perimeter. The other hand's floating free out of John's peripheral vsion, which is quite a huge bit not good. John can't help but flinch this time. Loud noises are alsovery not good.

"Here's the other thing, John," the great confusing git (armed and dangerous) barrels along like a train wreck and it's all John can do not to move to stall him, or try to, but it's much too late for that, clearly, and _has been_, "and this is quite brutally important so pay attention because you'll have to make a choice, you simply _must_—that is to say,_ if_ I let you even get that far and as I'll be going by what's pure exemplary evidence—heart-rate, dilation, pressure, swelling of tissue; it's empirical, John—you know my methods—I may as well just present you the issue _and _my conclusions and read your response like a bloody book. An Idiot's Guide. Because of course I _can_ do that; do it all the time and you love it, say it's amazing; even Donovan shuts her silly trap when you do—impressive, John, really—and that's one of the many things you admire and adore about me, is it not? So!"

"Um?"

"There are others—" and Sherlock's got his tongue tip buried in John's actual ear on that, twisting, and it's the sound like the ocean and static but it's also a wet, warm heat hotwired directly to John's helplessly stirring dick. "I'll show you. Like this," he murmurs, and takes one hand off the wall to run it all down John's side, pressing firmly through John's half-discarded coat which is rather hampering him and John's jeans (right at the hip bone, where those violinist's fingers grip meaningfully, and then the other hand (doubly armed, amibidextrous; extremely dangerous) moves on deliberately to grope John's arse. "And this. This is...this is especially brilliant. Here. Just here." And he squeezes there, too, enough to send the John's lungs into stasis. John's hips come off the wall without his volition being in any way previously informed or requested. "And that as well!"

"Wa—"

It's a wicked, wicked thoat swallowing before his fixated gaze and John swallows in sympathy at the deep sounds that emerge from it, shaping those evil lips just so:

"I'm really quite experienced, John—which is to both of our advantages, naturally. And there'd be even more benefits, geometrically more, which I'll demonstrate for you directly in even more graphic detail. Nothing like a taste of the goods first, is there? Sampling, John. Imperative."

For whatever reason John doesn't say 'No', doesn't even think to say 'No' and he realizes too late that's his major mistake.

"I want you always to be careful, John—that's why I'm asking at all."

There's no way that hand—a very possessively heavy hand, too, teh free-form one—didn't mean anything in Sherlock-land, doing what it was just doing to John's arse, and for chrissake, if John himself tried that move on one of his come-and-go girlfriends or perhaps one of the few men who've interested him in passing since his return to London, he could've pretty much counted on shagging or being shagged before much time passed, shortly thereafter. Guaranteed.

"Because I'm sure I can convince you. As you're mostly convinced already."

It's a bloody engraved invitation to a fuck, that hand.

"You do understand that, at least, right? Right."

All of this is incidental byplay (Sherlock's convincing enough without makng use of words) and all extremely rapid in actuality; time's passing much faster than it should normally and Sherlock's grinning at him like a great white shark between sound bytes and indeed, he's got the colouring and perhaps even the primal guile and urge to devour. The hand curving hot-sweet at his arse tightens and jerks John forward just as Sherlock finally moves in to really crowd him, long lean thighs pressing into John's shorter shanks, nudging into his pelvic cradle and his belly. If that's a gun Sherlock's carrying, John's going to be very surprised. It throbs; John parts his lips (or maybe he's not closed his mouth, he doesn't recall, really, as this is rather an onslaught of practiced seduction and he wasn't prepared) and then John sees stars.

Pressure. They press up close together, Sherlock ironing John into the wall, his lone forearm still propped against the wall and a warm solid grounding weight by John's blushing cheekbone and it's very fine. Very fine.

"—gh!—" John says, not at all intelligently, but Sherlock's smiling widely at him all the same.

"Excellent."

Blunt-tipped object. _Again_, with that.

Sherlock grinds his hips into John, pressing cocks and bones and parchment-thin flesh that's all pouring heat through his shirt and trousers like a champion furnace and proceeds to eat John's mouth alive; thrusting and withdrawing, swallowing and nipping and practically choking John with a gush of salty saliva that also tastes of tea and toast. John groans, and Sherlock develops rather more hands than a normal human has—and uses them. However many there are, they are all over John and his coat's ripped to the floor by one especially agile and cast away before he can even help shrug it off.

John's going cross-eyed, trying to meet Sherlock's intent gaze, because if he doesn't he's likely dead meat.

"But this is crucial, John," Sherlock breathes damply, roughly, like rasped velvet, into his wet ear a moment later—mush kissing in the meantime, and perhaps it's eons; who can tell, really?—"I'm not a man who shares easily; in fact my family will inform you I'm very possessive of everything that_ is_ mine and although you are not ever a_ thing_, John, of mine, I certainly consider you to _be_ mine."

John gapes. There's all sorts of wrong and _not good_ with that but then there's also all sorts of _right_. He certainly thinks of Sherlock as _his_, in many ways and not least as a friend, but also there's something else there (niggling feeling; he shakes it off instinctively every time it rears its ugly head) and has always been and he's never chosen to die or kill lightly, has he?

"As I'm yours."

John shudders. Clearly, he should've been far more self-aware, living with the Dissecting Genius as he does. It's only self-defense tactics. If he's not careful he'll be the next head.

"Being that way, I have to advise you this is_ it_, John; you're going to have to provide informed consent."

Any reply to that disingenuous announcement is precluded by Sherlock's kissing his merry way right up John's neck to linger fondly at curve of his dropped jaw. Skipping over, he grins cheerily against John's parted lips, evidently reading enough in John's expression to feel very comfortable doing so, and then moves on to slurp his long tongue everywhere he possibly can, like a slobbering puppy. Eyebrows, forehead, fringe, temples. Certainly, John's giving him no trouble whatsoever, although if a random person had asked John if he was attracted to his flat mate before this one particular moment, he would've honestly replied 'No! What? It's not like that!"

It _is_ like that, evidently, and John's ears prick forward, or they would if they could, and now he's quite insanely interested in whatever Sherlock's going to spout next.

"I'm a jealous fuck," is what Sherlock says (severely so, like it's John's fault he is that) and language like that's shocking in a way, 'least from a Holmes, and yet also not. "I'll want you exclusively, John, and that's all there is to it, and knowing you, that's alright to be going on with; preferred outcomes…thing _is_, John," he waves a spare arm like a chainsaw, flailing it, and then pokes John in the left nipple very hard with a pointy fingertip, smudged likely with some noxious chemical, no doubt, "I'm a devoted prick, too; follow you always, and I'm not letting you go ever once I really truly have you. So there."

If Sherlock had ever had any marbles, say, a collection, he'd have been showing them off, all the really nice ones, and John's just been metaphorically enclosed by a circle drawn in the dirt.

"Ah—kay—" is far as John gets before his shirt's twisted sideways and up, the two edges of the button and hole plaquets parted and rather nastily rended apart. Buttons ping off, none of them—miraculously—ending up in any eyeballs. John thanks the gods that be for small favours as Sherlock instantly shifts his collection of nimble hands down and grapples with his tired old leather belt and his relatively recent (and still Welsh blue in the fabric weave, like his eyes) set of five-button flies. "Oi-**hey**!"

"Steady on, "Sherlock cautions, "just be a moment, that's it—do mine, then," he adds imperiously and John finds himself doing exactly that, though he's not sure he's buying into to exactly _why_. "John, hurry it up! It's haaard!"

Whiney bastard!

"Ngh!" John's fingertips are slick with cold sweat. He fumbles, fumbles again and then gets it right. His mind's gone white-noise all over; surely that excuses any idiocy what with being suddenly all thumbs? "…Kay?" he asks and Sherlock rewards him with another absolutely dazzling grin.

"Fantastic, good work, mate," Sherlock exhales softly, happily, as his trousers and pants clang down, dragged by his (much nicer) belt buckle, kissing John all across his face and over his wrinkled forehead even as he's talking away a mile a minute. "I was thinking sex now instead of later—later's too long anyway, I'll never last—patience_ not_ my long suit, John."

He never seems to take a breath; John finds that amazing, too.

"So you can finish sorting it during, you know—a data set to work within if you need it, also a comparison, though you'll find I'm as good, if not much better-but you also _know_, John, I think it'll be the last blow to all my good intentions of allowing you choice if we do that and you may want to make that call right. _Now_." And John's jeans are down on the carpet too and there's nothing between them but John's tented pants, two pairs of falling-down socks and a heated gap of maybe a half inch and closing. "**No**. There's no time, I'm wrong, sorry. Mistaken."

Sherlock promptly closes the gap; John groans. Blunt trauma with blunt object; strike to midsection. His kneecaps and fried brain will never be the same again.

"Bloody fuck!" Sherlock says, "bloody fuck, bloody fuck," and moans John's name right into John's own mouth like it's his dying, dying breath. "Too late by far. Oh,_ John_…"

John has nothing to say to_ that_.

They're snogging like madmen, complete with wild rolling eyes and red faces and nonsensical chatter on Sherlock's part, and all John can hear are scattered words and phrases, pinging vaguely against his stunned fried-fish brain. It's a mad monologue and evidently Sherlock's got very decent breath control, being able to talk like that whilst snogging like that and John's got to admit he's impressed all over again.

"Jealous, yes," Sherlock groans, moaning, "so very!" and growls out more words, all about "not letting you go, ever" and "after that fucking poolhouse, so remarkably clear!" and "damn that Moriarity; I_ will_ kill him, John, I will murder him, don't think I shan't," and ultimately the single (branding/marking/never going back again) syllable (nearly subsonic), velvet goldmine-edged: "Mine!"

Followed rapidly by: "Get your leg up—no, the good leg!"

And then John actually forces out the first complete sentence he's really had a chance to verbalize clearly since this started, which is a succinct and to the point: "No! Not here! For god's sake, Sherlock!"

"Are you?" Sherlock demands, not even pulling back—and no, he has no shame, not a whit. "You've not said. Why not?" he snaps, nipping very hard/sharp/cruel with desire at John's tortured earlobe, and he's clawing all the while at John's good leg for wall he's worth, yanking it upwards so John's jeans fall off completely. "You've said _yes_, John," he insists, and John's maybe-maybe not shaking his head—it's whirling and yes, he can relate completely to stunned fish, a school of them—no. "With your body, at least. Use your mouth!" More he feels like a bear's got hold of him or maybe some mythical beast called Sherlock, and really—he doesn't want the proceedings to stop, he only wants to be horizontal for them. Because—duh!—his_ other_ leg. "Tell me! Tell me now, John!" Sherlock would make for a good bulldog if he's not going to be a shark. "_John_."

"What?" John snaps back, irritated by fancy and mildly infuriated Sherlock's being so inordinately _slow_. "Is that too much to ask?"

…And he's expecting Sherlock to read his mind, which is (naturally) what Sherlock does seem to do, mostly, and of course the fearsome git does do this time, _of course_, 'cause he's abruptly being dragged into the living room, right round the heaped up messy (must tidy) coffee table and then dumped unceremoniously on to the overly long divan-of-ancient-origin like a sack of boneless grain sporting a massive stiffie.

God knows Sherlock's been to blame all this time for all John's inability to write decent prose, if that's what all this constant tagging along does to his poor head. Spins it. Damn him. He'd been addled and for an excruciatingly long time, if he didn't even catch _that_.

"How's that? Better? Good!" Sherlock's rampantly triumphant, a Library Lion on the make. He clambers aboard John's hips, grabs atone of them, pinching the taut flesh in passing, grasps John's good shoulder (carefully, though); twists the two of them sideways and rolls them over, smartly. Somehow John's balanced on top and swaying.

He does his just-been-sacked-by-a-dead-cod thing at Sherlock, blinking slowly, and Sherlock scowls.

"But say it, John," he orders impatiently, face smoothing out with expectation, and he's licking his lips and darting his tongue out—"Say it now, damn you! Say you _will_"—and John can see all at once that Sherlock's running on nerves and maybe this wasn't as much a sure thing as Sherlock would like him to believe it is. "Please. _Now_."

So he smiles, because it is. Always was and John doesn't lie to himself, ever, and well.

Well. He wouldn't be here, glad to be home safe (he'd be at the pub, yes he would, shedding old skins and looking about him for a new girl or guy, instead, probably…if he wasn't too wrung out from the mutual break-up with Sarah) if it wasn't like that.

And it's not all that _safe_, either, home, but that's a matter of opinion and really, now. It's also all good.

"Carry on," he grins down at Sherlock's adorably frowny-face insouciantly, and Sherlock draws in a very deep breath and surges high; breathes dry-lipped against John's generous smile:

"Are. You. _Sure_?"

It's better than best (he adores Sherlock like this; who's he fooling? He adores _Sherlock_) and John chortles because he fancies someone like mad and he _didn't even know_. Giggles, actually, and that causes Sherlock to chuckle along with, a sound which is low and rich and deep and has that narrow chest and wide set of shoulders vibrating against John's bared torso like a hammer drill, cutting in.

"Last chance, John."

His heart's already flayed wide open so it doesn't matter, really, and all John can think of is he'd rather be Sherlock's than Sarah's anyway—he'd rather be Sherlock's than_ anyone's_—and Sherlock of all people shouldn't even have to ask.

"No more time left, John."

But. It's nice that he does. Bit very good. Makes up for—

"Now!"

A lot. "Yes, okay. Alright."

And that's that: case closed.


End file.
